Chapter 32

The afternoon sky was heavy and dim. Sunlight, veiled behind thick clouds, spilled weakly through like it was slipping through holes in a worn curtain.

The road grew narrower. The asphalt faded into dirt, and the streetlights no longer followed.

Beyond the window, Beomjin saw low mountain slopes brushing past and fields divided like torn scraps of paper.

He stopped the car. Through the windshield, a lone gray standing stone caught his eye—half-buried among weeds. The surface was cracked and weathered, but the letters carved deep into it still read: [Okgye-ri].

That single stone felt as massive as a mountain. It stood like a boundary between the village and the rest of the world, caked in dust and time.

Beomjin stepped out of the car. A faint breeze touched his face. Even the scent of soil in the air felt heavy.

For no clear reason, he stood there for a while, just staring at the marker—feeling the stillness of the village beyond it.

No sound.

No birdsong, no barking dogs, not even the occasional hum of a farming machine.

It was as if time itself had stopped here.

This is it.

He walked past the marker and stepped into the village. And at that very moment, the wound he’d received from the imugi began to ache. He’d been treated and cleared, told it had fully healed—but now there was a faint, lingering warmth beneath the skin.

It wasn’t exactly pain. More like a strange discomfort, as though something unfamiliar was stirring inside him.

Brushing it off as aftereffects, he pressed a hand to his thigh and kept walking.

Then his phone rang. It was Jinyoung.

He answered without thinking, only for her voice to burst through like a gunshot.

“Hey! Where are you!?”

“Me? Handling something personal.”

“At least tell me where that is!”

Explaining felt too complicated—and honestly, too bothersome. He glanced at the peaceful scenery around Okgye-ri and said, “It’s… well—”

Static crackled through the speaker, sharp enough to sting his ear. Then the call cut off.
No signal.

What? No reception?

He turned back toward the edge of the village. Near the stone marker, one signal bar flickered back to life.

The oddness only fueled his curiosity. He powered the phone off and stepped deeper inside.

Following a narrow dirt path by the fields, he eventually spotted an old man digging up potatoes. His back was bent, his straw hat faded to gray.

“Hello, sir,” Beomjin greeted politely.

But the old man didn’t stop. He kept hoeing at the soil, mumbling without looking up.

“…Outsider, huh.”

“Yes, just visiting. It’s a beautiful village. By any chance—”

“I don’t know anything.”

Before Beomjin could finish, the old man struck the ground with his hoe.

Thunk.

“This is a quiet place. Don’t go making trouble.”

He wasn’t Beast-Blooded, but his stare pierced through like one. Beomjin didn’t press further. The man’s grip was still firm on the handle, his stooped back tense with irritation.

As he went deeper, a small shop and an old wooden bench came into view. A middle-aged woman sat there, darning a sock.

She looked up when she noticed him. Her hair was permed into soft curls, and she wore patterned work pants. For a brief second, her eyes widened in surprise—then dropped back to her sewing. She was a Pig Beast-Blooded. She almost said something but chose silence instead.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Beomjin tried.

The woman quietly gathered her thread and slipped inside the shop. He considered following her, but the sound of the door locking from the inside made him stop.

The silence was less eerie than the villagers’ reactions.

He wandered the lanes, but found no one else. Instead, he felt colder, more hostile stares—small pricks of attention that made his skin crawl.

Somewhere far off, someone watched from hiding. Not just one person, but many. He couldn’t tell how many or exactly where they were, only that he was being observed.

And it wasn’t simple human hostility.

On a distant hill a small pavilion stood. Something moved there. Beomjin started walking toward it.

A shaky little pavilion sat on the hill, as if it might collapse with the next gust. Someone was inside.

A kid in a loose hoodie leaned against a pavilion post. On the floor lay a cheap pen, a half-empty water bottle, and a battered paperback so worn the title was unreadable.

From a distance the kid’s features looked androgynous—so soft it was hard to tell if they were a boy or a girl. They shuffled a faded sneaker with one foot while reading.

Beomjin approached slowly and spoke carefully. “Hello. Why are you here alone?”

The finger turning the page stopped. The kid lifted their head and met his gaze.

Their eyes were clear, a mix of gray and blue—empty in a way that stirred something unfamiliar in him.

“…Who are you?” the kid asked.

Their voice was low and flat, emotionless. It was thin and polite—like a girl’s tone.

A Dragon…?

There was no Beast-Blooded scent coming from the child, but an indefinable pressure radiated from them.

“I’m just passing through. I’m looking for someone in this village—may I ask you a few things?”

“…Me? Why?” the kid replied, expressionless.

“Because the other people just avoid me,” Beomjin offered with a friendly smile, but the kid didn’t react. They stared at him and dropped a single line.

“Is it because you’re a tiger, mister?”

Ah—so it’s because of that.

Beomjin hesitated between pretending not to notice and admitting it. He decided he couldn’t fake it under that cold gaze.

“You can tell?”

“Of course. There are plenty in this village.”

The kid said it like it was obvious, and then their expression grew somber.

“If it’s okay with you, you can ask.”

Beomjin stepped a little closer and rested a hand on the pavilion post.

Up close, the kid looked pitiful—dust in their hair and on their face and arms, small scabs here and there. Clearly, there was a story there.

“Since you seem to know, I’ll be honest,” the kid said.

When Beomjin tried to say he was searching for a Dragon, the words stuck in his throat. In the end he asked something small.

“…Why are you here alone?”

“Because I like places without people.”

The short, flat answer carried a strange mix of indifference and resignation.

In that cold, sinking atmosphere, he couldn’t bring himself to ask why.

Then someone climbed up the hill below—and a thrown pebble hit the kid in the forehead.

“Ah!”

The child clutched their brow and crouched over. Laughter and the sound of handclaps followed.

Four kids had come up the slope. The one in front caught everyone’s eye: a boy taller than the rest, head and shoulders above them, overflowing with swagger. Crucially, Beomjin smelled Dragon on him.

“Hey! Shin Seoyul! Still playing alone here?”

“Ah… it’s Doyun.”

Seoyul stuffed the book and pen into their bag. Only when Doyun and his gang reached the pavilion did they notice Beomjin. The kids started whispering among themselves.

“That must be the adult people were talking about.”

“What? Why is he with Seoyul?”

“Hey, hey, don’t be scared. Don’t you know who I am?”

Doyun stepped forward, clamping down the chatter. By size and presence he looked like someone you could mistake for an adult. He tilted his chin arrogantly.

“Seoyul, I told you not to stand out, right? You keep ignoring me—do you want to die for real?”

Doyun hit Seoyul on the head, treating Beomjin like he wasn’t even there.

Beomjin’s anger wasn’t just from the violence—it was from the sheer arrogance of being ignored. His voice dropped low, sharp as a blade.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

As if he’d been expecting it, Doyun turned toward him. “Don’t mind us, outsider.”

The bold reply made the other kids puff up too, standing taller behind him.

Beomjin gave a humorless laugh. The sound alone made the boys flinch, though they quickly covered their fear by raising their voices.

“Just go on your way, mister. Don’t stick your nose in unless you want trouble.”

Beomjin bared his teeth in a smirk. “So you’re saying I should pretend I didn’t see you hit this kid? You brats think I’m some kind of fool?”

The quiet rumble in his voice made the kids step back. Seoyul stayed crouched, watching the two tensely.

“I’m saying this nicely because I’m an outsider,” Beomjin said. “Stop picking on people and get lost—before I shove that rock down your throat.”

The tiger’s killing intent rolled out. The kids went pale. Even so, as their so-called leader, Doyun swallowed hard and squared up to him.

“Hey, you hear that? He doesn’t even know who I am!” Doyun sneered. “Mister, I’m of the Dragon bloodline! Who are you to talk down to me?”

Dragon?

Beomjin turned to Seoyul. Their eyes met, and she gave a small, silent nod.

Two Dragons?

He’d thought Seoyul was the one—but Doyun’s scent carried the same trace.

“You’re a Dragon? Says who?” Beomjin asked, expression flat.

The arrogance on Doyun’s face reminded him faintly of Jin Geonmyeong, though without that suffocating majesty. The casual question hit him like a slap.

“Wow, did you hear that? He’s mocking me!”

“He really doesn’t know anything.”

“Hey, Doyun—show him! Make him beg for mercy!”

The boys laughed, egging him on. Doyun grinned, rolling his shoulders as if enjoying the attention. His eyes drifted to the shaky pavilion post beside them.

“Hey, maybe it’s time they replace this old thing,” he said. “No one comes here except Shin Seoyul anyway.”

He tapped the post twice—then his gaze hardened. Clenching his jaw, he drew his arm back and struck it.

Thud!

Crack!

The post snapped clean through. The already-tilting pavilion groaned, then began to collapse.

“Watch out!”

Beomjin grabbed Seoyul and pulled her out just as the pavilion crashed down.

Crash!

A cloud of dust exploded around them. Splintered wood flew; beams rolled down the slope.

Shaking, Seoyul stared at the wreckage. Her bag was trapped under the fallen structure, flattened beyond saving.

“What the hell was that!?” Beomjin shouted.

Doyun only grinned. His friends clapped and whooped, cheering as if they’d just watched fireworks.

“Damn! Told you he’s got Dragon blood! Did you get that on video?”

“Hey, Seoyul! You saw that, right? You’ll never beat Doyun!”

While they laughed, Seoyul shrank back even further.

Then, from down the hill, several adults came running. The man in front reached them first with surprising speed.

“Village Chief, you’re here,” Doyun said brightly, as if he hadn’t just caused chaos.

The balding man with gray hair stopped before them, eyes calm but sharp. His wrinkled face held a practiced smile.

“Good afternoon. I’m Lee Geonjung, chief of Okgye-ri Village,” he said.

Beomjin took his rough, calloused hand and nodded politely. “Baek Beomjin, Special Beast Investigation Unit.”

Geonjung’s round eyes blinked in quick succession. A faint, damp, earthy scent reached Beomjin’s nose—like old bark.

The man was an owl Beast-Blooded.